


C’est l’extase langoureuse

by phisen



Series: A new religion [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Body language kink, Fetish, M/M, Romance, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 05:19:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10429992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phisen/pseuds/phisen
Summary: Yuuri can't hold back when he sees the poetry in motion that is Victor.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is built around the lyrics to Debussy's [_C’est l’extase langoureuse_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PV01Pui0m3I).
> 
> Thanks to [TenchiKai](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TenchiKai/pseuds/TenchiKai) for being my beta. Highly appreciated!

 

_C'est l'extase langoureuse,_

_C'est la fatigue amoureuse,_

_C'est tous les frissons des bois_

_Parmi l'étreinte des brises,_

_C'est vers les ramures grises_

_Le choeur des petites voix._

_O le frêle et frais murmure!_

_Cela gazouille et susurre,_

_Cela ressemble au cri doux_

_Que l'herbe agitée expire..._

_Tu dirais,_

_sous l'eau qui vire,_

_Le roulis sourd des cailloux._

_Cette âme qui se lamente_

_En cette plainte dormante_

_C'est la nôtre, n'est-ce pas ?_

_La mienne, dis, et la tienne,_

_Dont s'exhale l'humble antienne_

_Par ce tiède soir, tout bas ?_

| 

_It is the languorous ecstasy,_

_It is the fatigue of love,_

_It is all the rustling of the woods_

_In the embrace of the breezes,_

_It is near the gray branches –_

_A chorus of tiny voices._

_Oh the frail and fresh murmur!_

_It babbles and whispers_

_It resembles the sweet sound_

_That the waving grass exhales…_

_You could say it were,_

_under the bending stream,_

_the muffled sound of rolling pebbles._

_This soul, which laments,_

_And this dormant moan,_

_It is ours, is it not?_

_It is mine, say, and yours,_

_Of which we exhale this humble anthem_

_On this mild evening, so very quietly?_  
  
---|---  
  
 

It felt peculiar, being the observer. It was as if he stepped into his old role, the one from before. When he was always watching, yearning, wanting. Always from afar. Being that person, it belonged to another life, another lifetime.

He was with him now. He had unlimited access to him. Everything about him, every small and seemingly insignificant detail, was his and his alone. But today, he had to share him. Share him with the world. It had been some time since that happened last.

Seeing him undress, taking off the oh so familiar red and white to put on something else, made him anticipative. He could feel the small cues already. The increased thumps in his chest, the dryness in his mouth, the need to not miss a single second of what was playing out before him. Strange how he made him feel like this. No, he had always made him feel like this. What was strange was how he _still_ made him feel exactly like this.

That’s how it was with him. How he, in this specific context, still made him want more. All and everything he could possibly give.

He glanced at him, every now and then. Smiled a little. It seemed like he was very well aware of his eyes on him. Like he lingered, with his every move. It wasn’t appropriate of him to try to stop time. To make it just about them. They weren’t alone and he never wanted to share him, not in any way, even though he had to. At least for now.

Being passive made it worse. The anticipation grew. When he asked him to join him, to help him, he was quick to get to his feet.

“Can you button it for me?”

What a question.

The shirt was in his hands. What connotations would it cement, after what was to come? He couldn’t help thinking about that, getting lost in a flurry of feelings more than thoughts. He felt like the question was rousing, making something stir inside.

He took it from him. Reveled in the illustrious painting that was his back, as he turned around. Seeing those shoulders flex, seeing the muscles play underneath the skin as he put his arms through the sleeves. The black fabric seemed like a second skin as it covered him, smoothing out the contours of every single inch he had ever held on to. Everything he had ever claimed. The red mesh gave everything away, making him long for the territory it so tantalisingly put on display. He wanted to hold on some more, hold on to what he had used as handles in every exposed and heated embrace.

He turned around, with calm and blue eyes instantly sticking to his. Asking him to veil what he had to offer.

He felt his steady exhales with every breath he made, swirling out from his parted lips and caressing his face. He started to do what he was asked, commencing from the bottom and slowly working his way up. A stray finger touched his stomach, his chest and collarbone as he fought with the buttons. It was unintentional, but at the same time, he was occupied with some strange resolve.

Seeing how the mesh clinged to him, giving him front row access as he watched his stomach heave and drop with an uncanny regularity, made him enraptured. The final button felt like a blessing and a burden at the same time. As he tried to make it go through the delicate slit in the fabric, his hands suddenly were on top of his own. Warm and calm. Not at all like his.

“I’ll do it.”

He was smiling as he took control. Took away what he longed for and wanted undone at the same time.

“How do I look?”

Preternatural. It was the only thing he could think of. He couldn’t say anything, but it seemed like he had conveyed his awe. The beaming smile he received in return said as much.

“Skates, please.”

He’d seen him lace them numerous of times, always in the exact same way. He pulled the laces tight at first, let them go slightly loose just below the ankle before tightening them again. He was a creature of habit, but only then.

He looked at him from below, from where he was sitting. Those pools of never ending blue shone with something he couldn’t put into words. When he stood up, his hand trailed his thigh, just briefly, before it found its usual resting place at the small of his back.

“I’m off to warm up. I’ll see you.”

“I’ll be watching.”

He was rewarded with a trailing thumb on his lower lip and a smile he only used for him.

“I know you will. I look forward to it.”

* * *

 

“Is this it?”

“Mhm. What do you think?”

“It sounds… longing, I think.”

He chuckled, tightened his grip around him from behind.

“Did I say something funny?”

“It’s not longing, Yuuri. It’s lust.”

He had to turn around, see if he was mocking him or not. Being against his chest, between his legs with nothing compromising their contact.

His eyes were sincere. He meant every word, it seemed.

“Lust?”

“Yes. You don’t know French, but it’s passion in this piece. Unbridled passion. Here, listen.”

He skipped a bit, knowing very well what passage he was looking for.

“Here, Yuuri.” He sung along, low and fluent. “ _En cette plainte dormante. C'est la nôtre, n'est-ce pas? La mienne, dis, et la tienne. Dont s'exhale l'humble antienne._ ”

He didn’t need a translation. The way he looked into his eyes as the last two sentences purred deep within his throat made him understand that he was speaking the truth. About passion. He suddenly felt a disabling pulse. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel flattered, loved or embarrassed. The latter feeling took over.

He felt that heat, that same heat that never seemed to let him be in moments like this. He put his head against his chest, hoping that he’d been preemptive enough. Why was it always like that, why would his cheeks always burn as soon as he expressed his love for him with words and with his body?

“Aw, I’m sorry.”

One hand found its way into his hair, to console. To take the edge away. Or, maybe to push him further down the path he was already treading?

“Still,” he continued, “it tells an amazing story. The story of us. I want every short program this season to be about us.”

“You’re embarrassing me.” He spoke softly against his chest. “What… does it mean? The lyrics?”

He laughed. It was a warm laugh, one that came straight from the heart.

“You want to know? I don’t think you can handle it, love.”

“I… I must know! If you’re explicitly making me a part of your program, I need to know.”

“You’re always a part of me when I skate. This isn’t new.”

“Victor!”

“Fine! Fine,” he laughed. Suddenly, becoming serious. Coercing him to look at him with a couple of fingers on his chin. “It’s about the feeling afterwards. The feeling after you’ve come, after you’ve made love. What it sounds like. What it feels like.”

He flinched. This was his idea of a short program? Putting him, no, them on display like that? He wanted to say no. He wanted to avert his eyes. He wanted him to change his mind, understand how it made him feel to hear something like that.

“Let me celebrate being with you.”

The kiss that followed convinced him. He wanted to say yes. Wanted to lock eyes with him. Wanted him to see it through. Wanted to be a part of the languorous ecstasy, together with him.

* * *

 

He was standing alone, in the off-ice warm up area. Eyes glued to the monitor on the wall. Ever since he walked off to warm up on the ice, he’d been off limits. It suddenly made him feel like how it was before, being the observer from afar. How he had been dying to get a glimpse of him, breathe the same air as him, stand on the same ice as him.

It made him feel needy. Like he was thrown back in time, like he instantly connected with the one he used to be. As soon as the camera by the rink got him in its sight, he felt the need to hold on. Seeing him made his knees buckle, his stomach clench, his throat shrivel up. Just like before. But seeing him made him also feel concupiscent. That was new.

It almost became a game, spotting him on that screen. Slowly realising what it made him feel, realising what was happening inside him, every time he passed by in his black and red outfit. With that confident smile. Those narrowed and focused eyes. The other skaters that accidentally got caught in the same frame as him were nothing. Invisible. Obsolete. It was only him in his sight. And oh, how he wanted him.

The warm up was coming to a close. All but one of the skaters started to head for the exit. He was skating as number four. Now, all he could do was to wait. Wait for him to appear again, to take his breath away. To make him weak. Like so many times before.

* * *

 

The announcer’s voice echoed in the speakers. “We welcome to the ice, representing Russia, Victor Nikiforov!”

And with those words, his world stopped. Seeing him, arms open, welcoming the cheers and the applauds, made him inhale sharply. He was made to do this. To entice not only the audience, but also… him. _I will never share you._

He made a captivating contrast, standing there on the ice. Waiting for the music to start, with his head bent down and a delicate fingers touching his cheek and lips. His fringe fell slightly into his eyes. He wanted to pull it back, even from where he was watching him on a screen, and realising that made him feel silly.

It felt like he was vibrating, waiting for the beckoning sound of the piano to start. He hadn’t seen him prepare even once. He wasn’t sure what he was going to witness. Or experience. And then, it began.

He came out of the starting position immediately. A few crossovers, then back into a cantilever. Using the centripetal force to turn. His face had the same expression as when… Yes, when he was a part of the fatigue they shared, more often than not.

This was something else, it made him feel something else. This wasn’t eros, it was beyond. His jump combination was exquisite and melted into a slow step sequence, a wonderful change of pace. He remembered those moves, those hands. How he had been next to him, almost into him, in a flurry just like that not too long ago. And now, he was repeating their closeness. For everyone to see.

He felt that surge. The one he’d been trying not to remember, ever since he knew couldn’t resist him. Awkward memories flashed by him, how he had watched his routines late at night, making himself feel a little more. Trying desperately to find comfort in his movements, wishing with a fervor that he could be close. That he could do that to him. Yes, the ecstasy. The drawn out circumstance that followed, and the knot that got tighter and tighter with every emotional rendezvous.

A sit spin. The movement of his elongated arm, billowing like waving grass. The touch of his face as it slowed down, when he stood up, how it lingered. How the fingers caught his lips. It wasn’t intentional, there was no possibility that it was, but the camera panned. And he found it immediately. It was only a fraction of a second, but their eyes found each other, reminding him of how he looks at him with veneration. Afterwards, when it all becomes still.

He shifted. He had to. Had to cross his legs. Try to breathe. Try not to let the obvious display of their intimacy get to him. He knew he was failing, he felt as much. How the tension was building inside, making him quake. Making him long for something that only he could give him.

“Hey, Yuuri.”

_Not now. Please, not now._

“Debussy, huh? I wish I could have thought of that, not only the ice would be wet, let me tell you.”

“Chris… I…” It was in his voice now. That greed, that ache. That consuming desire.

“Hm? Oh, I see. Is he like that in bed? Damn, I’m jealous.”

He couldn’t turn around. He had to remain where he stood, with legs crossed and a hand covering his mouth. The rhythmic throbbing made him close his eyes. He was burning up. Seconds away from erupting. Having a bystander wouldn’t change this. Couldn’t change this.

A pat on the hip, a little too low for it to be a touch of camaraderie.

“Guess someone will be coming first tonight, huh?” He felt his breath against his ear. “I seriously doubt it’ll be him.”

They stood together for something that felt like an excruciating eternity.

“Oh, this _is_ good. _Le choeur des petites voix. O le frêle et frais murmure!_ A bit underwhelming though, no?”

Disappearing steps, a chuckle.

“Enjoy yourself! I’ll be thinking of you!”

Strangely, the conversation would have made him come down. It would have made him lose the craving. But nothing happened. It stayed with him. Kept on pulling him in, making him lose every bit of composure he still had. Every remaining bit of inhibition.

The flip. The quadruple flip, delivered to him in the same way the lyrics were. The lyrics he had sung with an undeniable purpose. With a feverish need and want.

_En cette plainte dormante. C'est la nôtre, n'est-ce pas? La mienne, dis, et la tienne. Dont s'exhale l'humble antienne._

It was flawless. Just like him.

* * *

 

The Kiss and Cry. He was breathing hard after his effort, being all glistening skin, abdominal muscles playing underneath that red mesh. Such sweet torture.

He was teasing him. Being approachable, inviting the world to share what they had. Blowing kisses at the camera. Pulling his hair back from his face. Why did he have to be such an exhibitionist?

It dawned on him that he _loved_ it. He loved him leading everybody on, but in the end, after all the cheers became quiet and the magic had disappeared… he was going home with him. That empowered him, made him feel invincible. He was indeed taking him away from the world. He was his. His dominion. To do with as he saw fit.

115,6. A new record. That face lit up, more happy than proud. More thankful than confident. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to get to him. To claim what was rightfully his.

He stood just around the corner. Like a predator waiting to pounce on its prey. He didn’t recognise himself at all. This wasn’t him although… it was. He had never felt more like himself than in that very moment. It was a side of him he never had gotten the chance to explore and now, it was there. Written on his skin, like he was an open book.

He came around that corner, eventually. Stepped right into the ambush. He was quick to grab his arm, pull him close. The feeling of having him, and that radiating heat, flush against himself was the end of him. The rebirth of the other him.

He needed him to intrude. He wanted to be devoured by him, stood ready to accept him with an open mouth. And he obliged. How far could that tongue of his reach, how much of him could he take in?

“We’re not alone.” His voice was attacking his senses, pulling him back for a fraction of a second. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

He couldn’t answer him, not with words, so he decided to show him. Show him how much he wanted _this_ , whatever _this_ was. Whatever _this_ would become. Whilst backing away, both hands holding on to one of his. Seeking desperately to find their haven, their sanctuary.

As soon as the door closed behind them, not spending as much as a second to determine if the show from before would continue with an audience, they were nothing but moans and hands that couldn’t make it right. Fumbling with zippers and buttons and fabric. Not finding it funny at all.

“You need to be quiet in here, okay?” His voice was ragged, spoken directly into his ear. “Promise me you’ll be quiet.”

He tried to uphold his end of the bargain, but his hands against his hips, tearing at his clothes, made it hard. He whimpered slightly. He tried to get his legs over his shoulders but they were restricted.

“I hate what you’re wearing.”

One shoe was removed, one leg got pulled out of its confinement consisting of two layers of fabric. Now, he was free. Barely breathing, waiting to be captured.

Every exhale became a sound, as if he was trying his register. He loved that feeling, as if every sound heightened his experience. The little tension before letting out the soft vowels, begging for more, brought him closer.

It sounded like he was feeding, and in a way, he was. Feeding upon something he could never get enough of. He couldn’t look at him, not without the risk of being consumed in a totally different way.

At one point, he did. Saw the silver hair and lashes that shadowed the two universes of blue. Saw how he disappeared into him. He cried out, making him stop.

"Quiet. You have to.”

He tried to cover his mouth, tried to meet him halfway. It felt wrong. Almost as constricting as his clothes. As he felt the cool from his ring finger on his lips, he took it in his mouth. Feeling the metal between his teeth, against his restless tongue. He bit down hard as his reality faded, as his soul began to lament over the death he was experiencing.

And then, it became still.


End file.
